


anything but gentle down the stream

by maharieel



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Battle of Dazar'alor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 23:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17837675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharieel/pseuds/maharieel
Summary: of losing, and winning, and bleeding out in the rain.or, the battle of dazar'alor





	anything but gentle down the stream

The sky bleeds red-orange at his back, broken at the seams by an incoming storm, and John hates the Gods for being so horrifically ironic. Rain lashes at him as he runs through the city, stinging at the still-bloody cuts along his torso and arms. He’s careful with his footing though. Keeps his one-good hand steadily gripped around his blade. Takes a deep breath as he shoves himself against a wall, the upcoming intersection stinking of corpses.

A groan echoes around the corner, and he lunges for the sound. The troll turns frantic grey-blue eyes to his, torso shredded and her innards half strewn across the courtyard. John finishes gutting her, swifter than she deserves, really. Her body crumbles behind him as he pushes forward, bigger things on his mind. Her blood drips from his hands, muddled by the rain.

He has lost Annika. He has lost her, amongst the bloodshed and chaos, and the sky is bleeding all around him.

He has to find Annika.

They had been running through the streets when the explosion had hit not five metres ahead of them. He’d been thrown, they both had, and he’d been barely to his feet again when the trolls started pouring from the smoke before them. The Zandalari fell upon them in waves, crashing against them in sprays of blood and smoke. He’d lost his bow to the greatsword of the largest brute, snapped clean in half instead of his spine, pieces tumbling over the railing to the walkway below.

Annika had almost made it back to his side, forehead already swollen red from a large gash and armour torn across the lower torso, when a thunderous bang shook the foundations beneath them. Over the chaos of blades-on-blades and dying men, a shout of warning had rung through the air. He’d turned, spied the lumbering giant charging towards them. Seen Annika call for Maiya, voice burning against her throat. Another crack shook them, and blood sprayed into the air, and the walkway began to crumble beneath his feet.

He’d seen Annika’s face, drenched in blood and torn into a scream, as he’d plummeted over the side after his shattered bow.

It was an oddly satisfying twist of fate that the giant had followed him over the edge. He’d been glad for it, despite his now useless left arm. The opening would have surely let the others get clear.

John stumbles up the stairs that ascend before him. The silence makes the wound in his side pulse with anxiety, hand curling back-and-forth against his blade as he runs. He knows what the objective had been, knows logically that if she’d be anywhere it’d be the very top of this godforsaken pyramid facing the King. He still finds himself glancing at the faces of every corpse he passes in Alliance blues, just in case. Their eyes stare vacantly up at him, rain soaking their quickly-rotting skin, and urge him forward when no familiarity sticks.

He has to find Annika.

A scream shatters the silence, followed by a blast of brackish blue magic from the pyramid above him. The air hangs heavy with tension in the seconds that follow, before a cacophony of shouting echoes down the winding stairs, as if caught in the torrent of rainwater that now flows beneath him. He sees arrows flying, deflected shots slamming into the tiles beside him. Bolts of magic shoot overhead, the familiar ice-blue as much of a reassurance as he can afford; at least Proudmoore still stands. His blood sings as the chaos erupts again, blade reflecting the crimson sky above him.

The mass of Alliance soldiers meets him halfway. Infantrymen stream past him, all clinging to their armour and weapons as if that alone will keep them tethered to life for just a little bit longer. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he spies their ships resting all-but untouched in the harbour. _Good_. The soldiers sprint for them despite the water-slicked ground, eyes frantic. John shoves past them all.

“Get back to the harbour!” Shaw. Thank fuck. The spymaster rounds the corner in a rush, boots skidding slightly on the wet ground, and his eyes land on John below him. One of his pauldrons has been torn off along with the armour below it, leaving the red-raw skin of his shoulder exposed to the open air. “Keeshan, thank the Gods. Lead these men to the harbour, now!”

John plants his feet, body coiled against the wall to allow the stream to pass him by. “Where’s Dobrovski?”

“What –”

Another blast of magic rocks the structure, sending soldiers skittering in panic. John is shoved against the wall, his bad arm bursting in white-hot pain, but his blood is familiar enough with the sensation that his vision remains clear. Shaw has rushed down the stairs now, and it’s only then that John notices the emptiness in his eyes.

“I gave you an order, Keeshan,” he snaps, voice raw above the thunder that has begun to rock the clouds above them. “Get moving. Now!”

“Where’s Annika?” John growls. Another soldier accidentally collides with him in his rush, and he bites down on his lip hard enough to taste iron.

The familiar bone-chilling feel of Proudmoore’s magic washes the area then, just as the woman appears at the top of the stairs. Greymane is with her, coat stained crimson at the roots, snarling back at the way they came. John feels his heart stutter-start in his chest as a familiar head of grey-blonde hair appears as well.

Annika whips her head to where he is, eyes wild against the gloom. The wound on her forehead has eased, no thanks to one of the priests that rushes by him, but her cheeks are all-but stained red with blood now. Her quiver swings empty at her back, her last arrow notched in the bow gripped bone-white before her. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes shift over him, veins popping in her throat at the way his arm hangs limp at his side. Maiya hobbles along beside her, one of her legs twisted awkwardly beneath her, but still manages a soft howl at the sight of him. John fights the urge to tug Annika against him right there, in the rain and blood and chaos that envelopes them. He settles for clasping her on the shoulder with his one good hand and urging her forward.

“We need to get out of here,” she mutters when she’s close enough. Her eyes keep flicking vacantly over her shoulder, and back to the blood on her hands. “Right now.”

He nods, grip too tight on her shoulder. “I know.”

Proudmoore rushes behind them, shouting at them to move. The soldier in him splutters to life at the command in her voice, and he urges Annika back the way he’d come at the fastest speed he can manage with the torrent of water underfoot.

They almost make it to the docks.

The pulsing in his arm has numbed to a worrying tingle, the sensation running along his collarbone and up his neck far enough that a headache blooms at the base of his skull. No point in voicing it, though, not when they’re running full-tilt towards the boats in the distance, not when the priests are barely keeping their feet beneath them, not when tears start trickling down Annika’s face when Maiya starts to falter with her shattered ankle. What remains of the trolls rallies behind them, a growing onslaught of tusks and swords encroaching on them by the second. The wave will hit them before the docks, he knows. The wave will kill them all.

“Shaw! Dobrovski!” Proudmoore calls. When John turns to her, there’s a hollow look to her eyes. He’s never seen her eyes look so dark. “Get the survivors onboard and raise anchor. Don’t lower the sails until you’re in Boralus.”

Annika stumbles from where she’s half dragging Maiya along beside her. Her voice comes out raw. “Jaina.”

“I said go,” the woman snaps. The wind picks up her hair and flings it behind her, brow furrowed against the onslaught. “I’ll give you as much time as I can.”

John glances behind them, to the tidal wave of shouts and screams and weapons that’s cascading down the stairs. He thinks he recognises the red hair of the Horde Champion among them, but before he can curse at her she vanishes back amongst the trolls at her back. Jaina follows his gaze, and where he expects a sigh a grunt comes out instead. He gives the woman a nod, understanding swelling in his gut. He turns to pull Annika onwards, and she offers little resistance to his tugging. Shaw does the same, lips pulled tight across his face.

Half way down the docks, a blast of magic washes over the area, and he watches as a sheet of ice materialised before his eyes, shards rocketing from the now-frozen ocean and impaling any too foolish to get close to Proudmoore. The battle cries morph quickly into screams. The temptation seems to be too enticing, though, and quickly the Horde and Zandalari forces are running carelessly across the frozen waters of the bay towards the now-glowing silhouette of Proudmoore instead of what remains of the Alliance, blood-soaked and limping as they are.

They make it to the boats. Barely. Proudmoore has vanished in the sleet hell-storm she’s crafted from thin air to the west. Maiya makes it to the deck of the ship before crumbling under her useless leg. He feels Annika at his back, her eyes caught between helping her wolf and the carnage unfolding in the bay. She reaches for his good hand, and he lets her take it.

The city burns above them. Even in the din of the storm, the screams can still be heard. The reptilian creatures the Zandalari have tamed run rampant through the city, their cries a symphony of death in the streets. He finds himself gazing to the top of the main pyramid, to what he assumes is the throne room. There, he finds nothing but darkness.

“We killed him,” Annika mutters beside him. Her voice is near silent, but he always hears her.

He already knew. He nods anyway.

“We killed him,” she repeats, eyes vacantly staring at Maiya as a priest quietly tries to repair the fractured bone. The wolf whimpers softly against the pain, and Annika’s face crumbles.

Logically, it’s their victory. John knows that. Of all the wars he’s fought though, of all the battles waged and the blood shed and the friends lost, he knows victory shouldn’t feel like this.

The pain in his arm worsens enough to drag him to his knees against the rail of the ship. He feels more than sees the look Annika shoots him, but he keeps his eyes shut against the pounding in his skull. Her calloused hands find their way to his cheeks, flat nails catching in the scruff of his beard.

“John,” she whispers.

He frowns, a wince caught in the back of his throat, and makes himself open his eyes. She is so close he can almost see the purple flecks in her dark eyes. They shine brighter as a bolt of lightning strikes in the distance, and he would kiss her were they not drenched in rain and gore. Her eyes shift to his arm, fingers prodding softly at the worst of it. A muscle flicks in his throat, but he hides it well.

“If you have the strength,” she is saying, and he realises belatedly that she’s turned to the priest behind her, “could you ease his suffering? At least until we return to Boralus?”

The mousey-faced woman lifts her glowing-gold hands from Maiya’s now healed ankle, and sighs at the mess of him. Even through the haze of pain, the bruises beneath her eyes burn like coals against her pale skin. “I can do my best.”

“Thank you.” Annika moves to take his good hand again, crouched beside him. Exhaustion claws at him from every angle, and so he doesn’t protest when the young priest lays her hands upon the gash in his shoulder and sets to work.

The rain pelts against them as they pull from the harbour and out into the waiting ocean, waves crashing harmlessly against the bow. Maiya has crawled to sprawl herself half in Annika’s lap at some point, freshly-healed leg resting gingerly across Annika’s own ankle. The rain seems to have washed them mostly clean of the blood, ironic as it is, and when he turns to meet Annika’s eyes again the stains have all-but faded from her cheeks and forehead.

They are maybe ten minutes from the harbour when there’s a crackle of blue magic in the centre of the deck. Shaw is there immediately, blades drawn at the faltering portal. John feels Annika tense beside him, her last arrow trained on the scene. He doesn’t miss the way she has shifted to a crouch in front of him, the priest shuffling behind her as well. He blindly feels for his blade, finding it tucked awkwardly against his thigh.

The portal splutters and shivers in the storm, as if struggling for purchase, before finally stabilising enough to let a lone figure come tumbling through. John leans his head back against the rail of the ship with a sigh when the familiar form of Proudmoore crashes into the deck, blood-soaked and barely conscious but alive, thank the Gods. Shaw is there instantly, dragging Jaina to a deflated crouch. The ship lurches slightly as Tandred rushes down from the helm, eyes wide.

“Thank the Gods,” Annika mutters, echoing his thoughts, as she falls back beside him. The priest has all-but abandoned him for the Grand Admiral, but John can’t find it in his heart to mind. He can feel his fingers again, in the very least.

As the chaos on deck calms to a quiet ache, John reaches for Annika’s hand. “Come here.”

She is there instantly, eyes roving over his arm before landing on his face and staying there. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” Not entirely a lie. She narrows her eyes at him slightly but relents. Her head falls to rest in the crook of his neck, her hair caught in the ends of his beard. She lets out a sigh and the ghost of her breath runs along his chest. He shivers, content.

“Thank you,” she whispers. He doesn’t have to ask what for.

Instead, he pushes a rough kiss into her hairline and breaths in the scent of her, leather and iron and sandalwood, and closes his eyes against the fading storm. In the distance, the red spill of the sky over Dazar’alor does not fade. John finds his gaze catching on it as they sail home. 

**Author's Note:**

> battle of dazar'alor is a damn good raid guys


End file.
